“Very well,” he said softly, and reached down to tug the covers up. He pulled them over them both and shifted a little lower on the pillows.
She settled her head on his chest, her dark hair fanning over her shoulders and his hands like satin. They lay there together in the silence. She was awake, he could tell that from her breathing. He was never going to sleep in the state she was putting him in.
So it was to be torture. And he wasn’t certain he could survive it, truth be told.
When she moved her hand again, the fingers flexing against his chest, he couldn’t help the shuddering sigh that escaped his lips. She lifted her head a second time, looking up at him in the dimness, her gaze glittering. “You are…a very good man.”
He flinched at that assessment. “I am not.”
“You are,” she insisted. “How many other men would have intervened on my behalf at the brothel, let alone taken me home and given me shelter and help once they learned my predicament? I do not think one out of ten would have done anything more than take advantage of my plight.”
“Use it to bed you, you mean,” he murmured, and watched as his fingers threaded through her hair. Had he meant to start doing that?
She swallowed hard and then nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean. They would have—they would have wanted repayment of some kind…for their help.”
He remained silent, all his control straining against his chest, straining against his dressing gown. Surely she must feel that as she was tucked against him. Surely she must know he was no better than those men she referred to in this speech about his supposed goodness.
“Imogen,” he said, his voice rasping in the quiet. A warning, he hoped. Though it sounded more like a plea in the dark. A needy sound of desire and pleasure and everything he needed to rein in.
She shifted against him in response, her breath shaky as she slid her hand beneath his dressing gown entirely. Her hands traced his pectoral, fingers tangling in his chest hair.
“Why did you kiss me tonight?” she whispered.
“Because I’m not a good man,” he retorted swiftly. “No matter if I try to help you, I’m not a good man, Imogen. You mustn’t forget that. I’m ruthless and cold and unfeeling.”
The last one wasn’t entirely true. He was feeling a great deal right now. It was just all pulsing desire as she let her hand trail along his side and pushed his dressing gown open even wider.
“Be careful,” he grunted, reaching up to catch her hand and hold it still against his hot skin. “Be very careful, Imogen. You push me too far and I might just take exactly what you said those other men would have wanted.”
She stared up into his face, holding his gaze for an uncomfortably long time. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Not when those amber eyes held him steady.
“What if tonight I want that too?” she whispered. “What if when you kissed me it made me forget, just for a moment, everything else? And what if I knew that if you did even more than kiss me, it would erase it all just for a little while? And I want it to do just that, even if it’s wanton and foolish and shortsighted.”
He stilled, focusing on her face. They were opposites in some ways. She was asking him to shatter her with pleasure, strip her control away to make her forget. He had always clung to control as a means to feel…better.
Those two desires could absolutely work in tandem. Wrong or right. And did wrong or right matter in the quiet of her bedroom? With a woman who knew exactly what she was asking? A woman he wanted with a power that startled him. If he took, maybe that driving need would also fade and he could focus on matters at hand.
It could be helpful to both of them.
At least that was what he told himself as he leaned forward, cupped her chin and claimed her lips for the second time that night.
Imogen shuddered as Oscar’s mouth covered hers. He was a very good kisser. That was the one coherent thought that fluttered through her heated mind. She’d been kissed a few times in her life. Warren, of course. Sometimes he was passionate, but often it was all perfunctory. Like she was a duty he had to fulfill.
Afterward, when she’d begun the business of seeking a protector, one or two men had put their lips to hers. Wet, on the whole. Somewhat unpleasant. Just a lot of thrusting tongue, which she supposed was meant to put her to mind of thrusting cock.
It hadn’t had the desired effect.
But Oscar Fitzhugh kissed her differently. Like she was a banquet table laden with every treat in the world and he was a starving man. Like he wanted to savor her every flavor until the world spun into darkness.
She wound her arms around his neck, parting her lips and reveling in the soft abrasion of his beard on her chin. She made a muffled sound in her throat, a moan and a cry merged and desperate. It must have pleased him, for he maneuvered her onto her back and angled his head to kiss her even more deeply.
She drowned in him. That was the best analogy she could think of as he plundered her mouth, thoroughly exploring every nook and cranny until her head was spinning. She recognized his hands were now moving too. He cupped her jaw, thumb tracing the bone with feather-light gentleness. He slipped it lower, his hand covering her throat for the briefest of moments before he traced her shoulder, down her arm.
He was mapping her body with his touch, finding the places where she responded. She surrendered to the process, giving him everything he desired without hesitation or embarrassment. They were just two people here in the dark, both wanting the same pleasure.
There was no harm in that.
He pulled away from the kiss, his dark gaze spearing her, pinning her in place as he palmed her left breast. Even through the thin fabric of her chemise, she felt every ridge of his rough hand, every heated movement as he began to stroke her nipple, pinching it lightly between his forefinger and thumb.
She arched her back, her breath shuddering out. His intense stare was too much, so she closed her eyes and simply surrendered to the magic he was creating with his touch. She heard him chuckle, a low, possessive sound, and that only seemed to ratchet up the intensity of what his fingers did. He was a man stalking his prey.
She wanted him to catch her. To claim her. To make her give over everything she was, everything she could be, consequences be damned. Consequences were for tomorrow. Tonight was for something else.
His mouth brushed her throat, and she gasped as she dug her fingers into the thick waves of his hair. He sucked her skin, right to the edge of pain, and switched his hand to her right breast. She was panting by then, rising into him, as if she could find relief. But he denied it, instead building an increasingly high and heavy wall of sensation.
His mouth moved down over her collarbone, down the edge of her chemise, then crested over her breast. He sucked her through the thin fabric, and she ground up, desperate for more, for that release that would send her into oblivion for a little while.
His hand dropped lower, fingers splaying over her stomach, cupping her hip. He was sliding her now, pulling her tighter against his chest as he massaged her thigh. Her legs fell open and he caught the one closest to him, arching it up over his legs so that she was splayed lewdly on her back. He pushed her chemise up and she was revealed to him.
He made a small sound at the back of his throat. Something dark and dangerous that sent heat shooting through her veins. His fingers traced a path along her inner thigh, almost tiptoeing up her skin, closer and closer to her core.